


Come See About Me

by Sour_Idealist



Category: Saints Row
Genre: Fourth-Game Era, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 02:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2371478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sour_Idealist/pseuds/Sour_Idealist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between failing and starting over, Johnny has a few moments to remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come See About Me

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my life now, apparently! It's [Scotty's](http://reijys.tumblr.com) fault, this time. As always, thanks for the support and encouragement.
> 
> Although I haven't played the games in which Aisha appears (barring her appearance in Saints of Rage, for... fairly straightforward reasons), I have done my best not to downplay her importance either to Johnny or as a person in her own right. I hope I have succeeded.

_She’s at Kingdom Come Records, she’s one more floor up, she’s one floor down, she’s at the house, this time you might be fast enough, you won’t, last time and the time before you thought you might be fast enough, you’re never gonna be fast enough but you have to try, but if you run and you run and you run you might have a moment before you start over, if you’re fast enough you’ll have a moment when you can just close your eyes and **remember** :_

This one time, you and Pierce and Shaundi and the boss all walked down to Freckle Bitch’s at two in the morning; you’d all had a few hits off of Shaundi’s lightbulb – she always was a good kid, generous like that – and you were passing a flask around, a flask of the good stuff even, because it was November, biting cold, and watching the kids shiver was just kinda sad.

“See, this is why booze is better for you,” you said to Shaundi, reclaiming your flask from her, “weed doesn’t keep you warm like this.”

“Yeah, but like… hangovers,” she said, shaking her head, dreads thwacking against your shoulder. You laughed and looped an arm around her waist, holding her close, and looked to the boss like you always did, shaking your head.

“Kids these days,” you said, smiling, and the boss laughed back, shaking his head too. “Kids these days.”

You were at Freckle Bitch’s by that point, everybody shoving in the door, Pierce wailing because Shaundi stepped on his foot, and the waitresses looked up and sighed and waved you to the booth in the corner where they always stuck you. The kids shoved into one side, elbowing each other in the ribs and laughing, and you slid in with the boss, got your back in the corner and waved one of the waitresses over.

“Six double cheeseburgers and a shitload of fries?” she asked you, grinning.

“Ooh, ooh, ooh, and a Diet Coke!” Shaundi called, waving at her. The waitress laughed again, and so did you – the boss too, muffling it in his hands.

“Alright, and a Diet Coke,” she said. “How could I forget?”

You don’t remember what you talked about while you waited for the food to show up – it wasn’t long – but you remember the cheeseburger, or rather you remember every Freckle Bitch’s cheeseburger, which is to say you remember what pure grease in a bun tasted like. You remember Shaundi trying to stuff her pickle down the back of Pierce’s shirt, and Pierce shrieking and pelting her with ketchup packets; the boss laughed and said “Hey, Shaundi, have some extra ammo,” and shoved his pickle over to her; you flicked some mis-aimed ketchup packets back towards Pierce. You were pretty baked by then, pretty buzzed too, so you almost missed the boss’s hand creeping slowly inch by inch towards your fries.

“Fuck you, man, you’ve got your own!” you said, pulling them away, and the boss laughed, stretching further.

“Everything’s better if it’s stolen, Johnny,” he said. You scooted yourself and your fries a little further, and the boss dove for you, laughing, until you were backed up against the corner of the booth and the boss was halfway into your lap, one hand braced against your knee.

“Aw, c’mon, fuck you,” you said, shoving at him; he shoved back, yelped, and collapsed in your lap with a thump, forehead knocking against your shoulder.

“Ow,” he said.

“Yeah, that’ll teach you to steal from me,” you said, and poked his cheek with one of your viciously-defended fries; he laughed, butting his head against your chest. You patted his hair like he was a puppy – hey, you were buzzed – and he punched you gently in the shoulder, laughing. His hair was softer than it looked, you remember, although he kind of needed to wash it; he smelled of gunpowder and sweat, mostly drowning out the grease-bleach-and-linoleum smell of the restaurant, and Pierce and Shaundi were laughing at the two of you.

_“Aisha! Behind you!”_

_Okay, okay, now move, **move,**_ _maybe you will save her, maybe you’ll have time to breathe and remember and you won’t go crazy yet, either way you have to **move.**_

This one time the boss crashed at your and Aisha’s place – Aisha wasn’t there, that night, you think she was at her sister’s, and you and the boss made it back home loud and late. The boss had a bullet somewhere, you think in the ribs, just a graze, but he’d lost a lot of blood and besides, you never did like an empty house. So you dragged him home with you, shoved him onto the couch and told him to “Stay the fuck put, dumbass,” and went to get the first-aid kit.

“I’m _fine,_ ” he said, but he stayed the fuck put long enough for you to get the kit down from the top of the fridge – and why the fuck did you keep it up there, anyway? you don’t remember, but you did – and came back brandishing alcohol swabs.

“Aw, c’mon, Johnny,” the boss whined when he saw you, “I’m gonna be fine, c’mon.”

“Hmm, no,” you said, “I have gotten shot more than you and that makes me the motherfucking authority, now take off your shirt.”

“Asshole,” the boss said, but he obeyed, wincing when the dried blood peeled away from the wound, and you crouched next to him, ripping the corner of the wipe off with your teeth.

“That a wipe or a condom packet?” the boss asked, and you poked him in the rips. “Ow! Is that even sanitary?”

“I just got the edge started, moron, I didn’t put my mouth on the fuckin’ wipe,” you said, which was true, and started cleaning.

“ _Owwwww!”_

“Oh, quit bitching,” you said, but you moved a little slower as you worked your way over the scrape. “Hey, nice treasure trail.”

“What the fuck,” the boss said easily; you shoved him back a little, cleaning out the bottom end of the cut. There was some grit in there, visible and vindicating; you had to dig a little, cleaning it out, and the boss hissed and twitched away.

“Hey, what did I say about the bitching?”

“I didn’t say _shit!_ ”

“The bitchface counts, boss,” you said, and kept working, one hand braced against his ribs to try to hold him steady. It worked, a little; it was a bad angle to actually stop him moving, or anything, plus it’s a bad idea to lean too hard on a guy with a hole in his ribs, but it seemed to keep him calmer, a little, just the touch.

A lot of the night is kind of fuzzy – it was a long while ago – but you remember getting the boss set up on the couch with a couple of spare blankets and shit, hearing him snoring through the wall when you went to sleep yourself. Come to think of it, you remember the morning after, too, remember looking out the window and humming Metallica when the boss shuffled into the kitchen behind you.

“Are you _cooking?”_

“No, I’m playing the fucking guitar,” you said, pointing at the wafflemaker. “Shut up and get the syrup out of the fridge.”

He didn’t move, the asshole. “You can _cook?_ ”

“Of course I can cook, shut up and get the syrup out,” you said.

“And it’s actually something I’m going to want to eat.”

“Yes it fucking is, now are you going to get that syrup or – shit!” The wafflemaker was beeping at you, kind of urgently, and you had to make a dive for it and sort of balance the waffle on three fingers while you found a plate. When you looked up, the boss was still leaning against the doorway, laughing.

“Shut the fuck up and get the syrup on the table before I shoot you in the face,” you said.

“Oh, you’re a _great_ cook,” he said, but he finally moved his lazy ass.

“They’re better a little crispy,” you said, starting the next waffle. Muffled scraping noises came from behind you.

“Holy shit, there’s something in your fridge besides leftovers and beer,” the boss said, voice echoing softly off the inside of the fridge. “That’s weird.”

“You think Aisha’s going to put up with that?” you said, kind of smiling; the boss laughed, finally emerging with the syrup. He got the butter, too, you remember, the weirdo.

“That explains the cooking, I guess,” he said.

“Aw, shut up and be grateful for a free meal, you lazy – oh, motherfucker!” The wafflemaker was beeping again. That’s the last part you remember.

_“Aisha! Behind you!”_

_It’s hard to think about the good times with her, when you have a moment to remember. Just makes it hurt more when you have to watch her die again. That’s the worst part about it, sometimes – before this, before that plane, before the **save her save her save her maybe this time** , you remember you were just getting to be able to look back and smile._

This one time, after Aisha, after you got out of the hospital, the boss swung by your place at night. “C’mon, man,” he said, standing backlit in the doorway, “go for a drive with me.”

“Are we killing Vice Kings?”

“Not unless they show up,” he said, and jerked his head at the outside. “I picked up a new ride. Figured you might want to help me test it out.”

You craned past him, looking out – a Raycaster, you think it was, definitely a sleek convertible, new and shining. “Picked up, huh? Just get lucky or what?”

“Someone wasn’t appreciating it,” he said, shrugging. “So, are you coming or what?”

You kind of didn’t want to, was the thing – you were tired, your chest sore, your knee hurting you again for some damn reason, all of you dull and weighted-down in this house that smelled like all that bright life Aisha didn’t get to live. You didn’t want to, but then you looked at the boss again, at this kid who’d built everything with you, the way the streetlight caught the worry in his eyes. Aisha wasn’t the only person in the world you loved – love – for all that she had your whole heart and a few other organ systems besides. She wasn’t the only one to love you back, either. Or, maybe, the only one to worry.

“Sure,” you said, “what the hell, why not?”

“You want to drive?” the boss asked, stepping out of the doorway, keeping the door open with one hand.

“Fuck no.” Letting the boss drive was nearly as good as a gunfight for adrenaline, and sometimes involved about as much murdering. You hopped in the driver’s side, kicking away some rightful owner’s Coke cans – talk about not appreciating a car – and cranked the radio.

“Hope nobody’s trying to send me anything good,” you said, five minutes later, watching the second mailbox in a row go flying behind you. The boss laughed.

“Who’s sending you shit?” he asked, taking the corner on two wheels. You whistled, kicked your feet up on the dashboard and started humming along. _Won’t you come see about me? I’ll be alone, dancing, you know it baby…_

You kind of expected to head downtown, you remember, but the boss headed out of the city instead, cut past everyone on the highway – and lost a side mirror, you think, but that might have been another time – and then pulled off into an empty side road, reaching straight into the darkness.

“So,” you said, after about a tenth of a second, “you gonna open her up or what?”

“What do you think, old man?” the boss asked, and you swear you could hear the gas pedal hit the floor. The wind just about peeled your face off – you hung onto your shades, just in case – and the bass shook the car, and it made you laugh, reaching one arm over the side of the car to feel the wind between your fingers.

Eventually, though, the car started slowing, and you turned to look at the boss. “What, turning back?”

“No.” The boss frowned, then pounded judiciously on the dash. “I’m not doing it.”

Slowly, inexorably, the car crawled to a stop in the middle of the quiet street.

“What the fuck?” you asked.

“Fucked if I know,” the boss said. You hopped out, pulled up the hood, and squinted at it.

“Do you actually know anything about cars?” the boss asked.

“No,” you said, and kicked the fender. “Fuck this thing.”

“Yeah, it’s bullshit,” the boss said, walking around. “It’s not smoking or anything…”

“Yeah, you barely hit anything this time, what the fuck,” you said, circling around the other way.

“Oh, hey!” the boss said, sticking his head over the door. “It’s out of gas.”

“Oh, fuck this.” You gave the car another good kick, this time in the side, just to make a point, and then looked around. “Alright, time to steal another car.”

The cornfields stretched on emptily around the two of you.

“There was a town a couple of minutes back that way,” the boss offered. “We could probably steal something there.”

“All right, well…” You looked around, sighed, and stabbed a knife into the dashboard for the lack of anything better to do. It didn’t get stuck, fortunately. “Let’s get walking.”

Of course, a couple of minutes at 100mph is kind of a long walk, and after a while the boss started looking over at you, frowning. “You okay, man?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you said, limping along.

“Wanna sit down for a minute?”

“No,” you lied.

After another few steps, he said, “Okay, too bad, sit the fuck down.”

“Fuck that,” you said; the boss reached one hand under your elbow and yanked, and you almost fell over, swaying in the road. The boss shifted his hand to your back, holding you steady.

“So, you were saying?” he said.

“Aw, shut up,” you said, but you let him lead you to the smooth stretch of grass on the shoulder of the road, let him sit the two of you down there. The rows of corn stretched up above your heads.

“Sorry, Johnny,” he said, leaning back on his elbows. “Didn’t mean to get you stuck out here.”

“Eh, whatever.” You shrugged. “It was fun.”

“Yeah.” He paused, settling his hand on the back of your arm. “Good to see you smiling again.”

“Yeah?” You shrugged, looking away at the cornstalks; this wasn’t really your thing, then or now. “Well, thanks.”

“Mmm.” When you looked back to him, he was smiling. Honestly, so were you, and the sky was big and bright and endless, and the whole world was still going, and that felt more hopeful than plain unfair. You remember that.

_“Aisha! Behind you!”_

_“Holy shit! Johnny! It’s… it’s really you!”_

_Holy shit, the boss is with you. You just might really make it this time. He’s got your back now; things might actually be fine._

 


End file.
